by Tracy Bloom
‘I like George Clooney very much, actually,’ she said, her voice having dropped an octave.
‘Good. That’s great,’ said Michelle. ‘So, he has this charity that does amazing things, and I thought we could raise money for it then we could invite him to come and collect the cheque. But I can only do that if I manage to persuade Mr Evans to give me lots of chicken . . . for free.’
She gulped.
Marianne sat very still, deep in thought. Michelle tried not to stare at the flesh bulging from her bra, peeking out from under her short sleeves.
‘Would you invite George Clooney to come here, to this factory?’ Marianne fired out suddenly.
‘I could . . . of course, yes . . . if you think that would be a good idea.’
‘And if he came, hypothetically let’s say, you would of course not forget to introduce him to me, the woman who made it all possible?’
‘Of course I would, Marianne.’
Marianne contemplated Michelle for a moment more, then she reached for her Post-it notes, selected a fuchsia-pink one and began to scribble some words on it. When she’d finished she heaved her ample frame out of her chair.
‘You owe me, George Clooney,’ she said before swinging around to enter Mr Evans’s office.
‘Michelle Hidderley wants a quick word, Mr Evans. She says it’s important.’
Michelle watched as Marianne placed the Post-it note in his hand and swooped back out of the room.
‘You’re on,’ she said, flicking her thumb to indicate that Michelle should enter the boss’s lair.
Mr Evans was still scrutinising the Post-it note as Michelle entered his office. In stark contrast to the rest of the factory, it was grandly adorned with heavy, dark furniture, central to which was an enormous desk in front of the window looking out onto the rolling hills at the back of the factory. You could almost forget that there was a mass of dead meat right below your feet.
Michelle didn’t know whether to wait until she was spoken to or get stuck into what would no doubt be a torturous exchange. Mr Evans cut across her thoughts as she desperately tried to recall her carefully worded proposal.
‘So, Marianne,’ he said, still reading.
‘Michelle,’ she corrected. Bollocks, she thought. Strike one. What did she do that for? If he wanted to call her Marianne, who was she to argue?
‘Michelle,’ he said putting the Post-it note down and looking at her for the first time. ‘It says here that you have an idea that will help ease the planning permission through the council for the factory extension.’
What the hell, screamed through Michelle’s head. What was he talking about? Was this Marianne’s idea of a joke? Was she so outraged at Michelle’s ridiculous idea that she thought she’d send her into the boss to get hung, drawn and quartered instead, for wasting his time? She looked round quickly through the open door at Marianne, who was smiling and nodding frantically.
‘So,’ bellowed Mr Evans. ‘Your dad’s a councillor, is he? Is that it? You know how I can get on his good side, do you? Oh, I get it. You know exactly how I can get on his good side. He’s sent you in, hasn’t he, for a bit of a backhander. Give us some dosh and I’ll see you right at the hearing. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ exclaimed Michelle. ‘My dad’s a postman.’
‘Right. Mistress, then. You sleeping with one of them corrupt bastards? If you seriously think I’m going to give you money so I can blackmail a councillor you must be off your rocker.’
Michelle sat speechless.
‘You got pictures?’ continued Mr Evans. ‘Evidence? If you’ve got that I’ll consider it, or else I could have any Tom, Dick or Harry coming up here and telling me they’re shagging a councillor.’
‘I’m not shagging a councillor!’ Michelle protested.
‘Right,’ said Mr Evans, looking confused. ‘Then how the hell do you think you can help me get on the council’s good side, then? They hate me. God only knows what I’ve done to upset them.’
Michelle looked round at Marianne in desperation. What on earth was she playing at? Marianne was now holding up a piece of paper which had one word written on it: CHARITY!
Michelle was still confused, but Marianne was one step ahead. She pulled up another sheet on which was written COUNCILLORS LOVE CHARITY EVENTS, except she hadn’t written LOVE, she’d drawn a heart in pink highlighter pen.
Michelle’s brain finally started to kick in. She raced to catch up with Marianne’s thinking and suddenly clicked where she was going with it – but how would she put it into words?
She turned back to Mr Evans and launched into her pitch.
‘Councillors love charity events,’ she said with a huge grin and some random jazz hands.
‘Don’t I bloody know it? Always asking us for bloody donations for this and that, just to make them look good poncing around in a suit and chain, handing a cheque to some mutant. Never does us any bloody good, does it?’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Michelle, her mind running fast to work out exactly what ‘Exactly!’ meant. ‘It’s because it’s not linked to the factory or chickens or anything,’ she blurted. ‘No-one knows or cares that we have donated money, least of all the council. So we have to do our own event and make it the biggest and best fundraiser the town has ever seen, so much so that you’ll have every councillor there is knocking on your door to be associated with it, and . . . and . . .’ She drew breath, struggling to find an and, ‘. . . and you’ll look great and the factory will look great and, like, a great addition to the town and really community minded and all that, so why would the council want to stop it growing and expanding?’
Mr Evans sat back, a little startled by Michelle’s sudden rush of confidence and passion.
‘You are almost starting to make sense,’ he said, his brow furrowed. ‘Continue.’
Michelle heard an audible ‘yes!’ from behind her and the swoosh of a flabby fist pump.
‘Well, you see, I had this idea that we could raise money for a good cause and have this big event inviting everyone. We could have it in that big space in the warehouse and have a kind of a MasterChef type thing where we invite teams from the town to cook their best chicken dish and serve it up, and then other people can buy tickets and come and test loads of chicken, and they get to vote for the best one, and we have prizes and a beer tent and dancing, and we call it . . . Chickens For Charity.’
Mr Evans stared at Michelle. She didn’t dare breathe. She looked nervously over her shoulder at Marianne, who was now on the edge of her chair, not bothering to pretend that she wasn’t totally listening in on the conversation. She shrugged as if to say she wasn’t sure whether Michelle had sold it to him. The silence was endless. Michelle had time to take in the fact that Mr Evans had two grey hairs peeping out of his nose which quivered as he breathed, and that he wore a wedding ring as well as a signet ring. She was just starting to wonder what kind of saint he was married to when he took a deep breath and prepared to speak.
‘Chickens For Charity,’ he murmured.
Agonisingly, he fell silent again.
‘I like it.’
Michelle squeaked. Marianne shrieked a louder ‘yes!’.
‘Chickens and Charity. That’s good, really good,’ Mr Evans went on. ‘If we get those councillors associating chickens with charity, then how could they possibly turn down our extension allowing us to do even more with
Chickens For Charity?’
‘Absolutely,’ Michelle nodded violently.
‘And it’s got quite a ring to it. Chickens For Charity,’ he repeated, waving his hand in the air as if seeing it in lights on some billboard. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, getting up and starting to pace the room. ‘Head office might go for this. Them poncey southern factories get all the kudos for coming up with ideas. About time I showed them all a good idea when I get one. Chickens For Charity,’ he said again, nodding in satisfaction.
‘And it’s a great charity I’ve found that we can donate to,’ Mi
chelle interjected. ‘We can do so much good.’
Mr Evans spun round, his brow furrowed again. Michelle sucked air rapidly through her mouth. She’d screwed it up at the last turn. He was going to want to pick the charity. She knew it, and then all of this would be for nothing, apart, perhaps, from some poxy charity with no-one interesting or even slightly famous running it anyway.
‘Just answer me this question,’ bellowed Mr Evans.
‘Yes,’ breathed Michelle. She could hear Marianne flapping behind her in trauma over the possible loss of a very unlikely meeting with George Clooney.
‘Will we be saving lives?’
‘Helping to, yes, definitely,’ Michelle nodded. ‘Of course you’ll be saving lives, Mr Evans.’
‘Excellent!’ he roared. ‘I just need to be able to tell the council that this chicken factory saves lives. Give the money to who the hell you like. I just want to be able to say THIS CHICKEN FACTORY SAVES LIVES.’ He thumped his fist hard on the table. ‘I can see the headline now on the front of the Echo. CHICKEN FACTORY SAVES LIVES. Can you get me that headline?’ he said, bearing down on Michelle.
‘I’m sure if we use the charity Michelle is suggesting then I can persuade Richard at the Echo to run the story,’ said Marianne, bustling in and blocking half the sunlight from the room. ‘Now, you have a meeting with HR that started ten minutes ago and I just need to warn you what Patrick’s put on the agenda. Michelle can come back next week with a list of what she needs for Chickens For Charity, then I’ll get on to the Echo and start warming them up.’ She was frantically waving her arm behind her back to instruct Michelle to vacate the office as a matter of urgency.
‘Yes. Right. Good,’ said Mr Evans, already studying the agenda that Marianne had thrust under his nose. ‘You may go now,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Same time next week. Don’t fuck this up for me.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Michelle, bowing out of the room. ‘Next week, good, brilliant.’
She was just sprinting her escape across Marianne’s office when she heard a bellow.
‘What on earth has that fuckwit Patrick put that on the agenda for? Get him in here. I refuse to go to a meeting with “Increasing Holiday Entitlement” on the agenda. Dickbrain.’
Chapter Eleven
Michelle eyed her front door as though it was the tip of Everest. So near and yet so far. Her arms felt like lead weights, clamped down by her sides, weighed down by provisions. Her legs were weak and feeble from a day of trudging miles and miles surrounded by uncompromising, often treacherous territory, and her lips, nose and cheeks could still feel the icy chill from hours of being exposed to below average temperatures. Still, her day at the factory was now over, and if she could just get through the door with what felt like half of Waitrose plus ten pounds of chicken breasts, then relief was somewhere in sight. A cup of tea and a cupcake, guiltily bought from the cake display, which had been screaming at her silently to be given a home in the depths of her belly.
She sighed with relief as she parked her purchases on the doorstep and put the key in the back door. She was secretly hoping to creep in without disturbing Josie, who should be upstairs doing her homework. She was desperate to snaffle the cupcake without any disapproving sneers from her daughter, who was unforgiving of Michelle’s reluctance to give up sugar in favour of a figure like Rihanna. Michelle had tried to drill into her that in fact Beyoncé was a much better role model with her awesome curves and excellent booty, but Josie was having none of it. Rihanna dictated the eating rules in their house.
‘Hiya, love,’ was the first indication Michelle had that her evening was not going to go to plan.
She looked around the kitchen and saw, not only her mum and dad, sitting at the table, cups of tea in hand and open biscuit tin plundered, but also Josie and Sean. Finally, to put a total halt to any hint of relaxation for her that evening, there sat Rob, sipping tea out of a mug with Best Mum In the World written on it, which Josie had bought her before she turned into the teenager from hell.
‘Josie happened to mention that you were doing that special chicken dish thing tonight – you know, the one your dad really likes, even though he hates chilli. We thought we’d come and help you out with it. You don’t want to be just cooking for the two of you, do you? No fun in that. I hate cooking for just me and your dad. It seems so pointless.’ Kathleen smiled at her husband.
Michelle dropped her heavy bags to the floor in silence, unsure what to do about the crowd of very unwelcome gatecrashers squatting at her kitchen table.
‘Oh, and I rang and invited Rob,’ Kathleen continued. ‘Thought he needed a bit of family round him. You know, since his divorce and everything. It was such a blessing to see him at the graveyard, and it made me realise that we’d been neglecting him all these years. Rob is as good as family to us and it’s about time we treated him that way.’ She patted Rob’s hand and grinned, smearing special occasion lipstick on her teeth.
Michelle wanted to scream at the mention of Rob and family in the same sentence, and at her mother’s hypocrisy. She could remember when Rob had announced he was taking a job in America straight after Jane had died. Kathleen had ranted and raved at his desertion in their hour of need and repeatedly declared that he would never step over their threshold again. And now she had invited him into Michelle’s kitchen, when he was the very last person she wanted to see make himself at home.
‘Sean’s here because he’s going late-night fishing and he needs a hot meal inside him before he goes, don’t you, Sean?’ said Josie.
Sean grunted his agreement whilst smirking at Michelle, reminding her that last time she’d seen him had been in cyberspace, half naked, accusing her of masturbating whilst watching George Clooney porn.
‘But I have company coming,’ she protested. Of all the nights for her family plus Sean and Rob to decide to descend, this was not a good one.
Kathleen twitched. ‘What, who? A man?’
‘Yes, but it’s only . . .’
‘Oh love,’ said Ray, getting up and putting his arms around her. ‘That’s just great. A man here for you. Now we can all meet him.’
‘You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,’ Josie leapt in. ‘When did that happen? Not someone you met down The Bull, is it? They’re all geriatrics in there. He’d better not be older than Granddad or else I’ll be beyond mortified. Me and Sean will have to leave. Just disgusting, Mum.’
‘No, hang on a minute. It’s just Daz coming and we’ve got something really important to talk about.’
‘You’re seeing Daz?’ Josie exclaimed. ‘Dozy DJ Daz is your boyfriend? Are you out of your mind?’
‘I always knew she’d end up with him, you know,’ Kathleen muttered. ‘They were such a lovely couple when they went out together at school.’
‘You have got to be kidding me!’ Josie stared at her mum as if she’d dated the devil. ‘Daz was your boyfriend?’
‘When your mother broke up with Daz he was round our house every night for a week, crying and begging for her to take him back,’ Kathleen told Josie. ‘I told her he was a lovely lad and she could do a lot worse, but she wouldn’t have it. Maybe she’s come to her senses now.’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Josie and Michelle simultaneously.
Just at that moment a playful knock came on the back door, which if Michelle wasn’t mistaken was the tapping out of the chorus to ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ by One Direction, and in strode Daz.
‘Hiya,’ he said as he closed the door behind him, not having clocked the audience awaiting him.
‘Fucking spiders,’ he said with a jump when he did turn round. ‘Wasn’t expecting the full family Hidderley contingent.’ His gaze landed finally on Rob and he barely disguised a sneer.
‘Wine and flowers, eh?’ Kathleen nodded, eyeing up the offerings Daz was clutching in his hands.
Michelle swooped in to scoop Daz’s gifts away and into hiding.
‘You didn’t need to bring flowers to a meeting,
’ she said loudly. She heard her mother muttering behind her about the cost of tulips when they weren’t in season.
‘They were selling them off at the end of the day on the market,’ said Daz. ‘Didn’t want to see them go to waste.’ Kathleen continued her barely suppressed commentary on the cost of tulips.
Then a heavy silence descended on the kitchen, apart from Michelle banging produce around and slamming cupboard doors. Everyone stared at each other awkwardly, until Rob broke the silence by getting up and walking over to the kitchen counter, where ingredients lay strewn in all directions.
‘So what can I do to help?’ he asked, unbuttoning the cuffs of his checked shirt and starting to roll his sleeves up. ‘I’m pretty nifty with a veg peeler.’
‘I bet you are,’ said Daz, nodding, and failing to hide his disdain at Rob’s revelation. ‘Well, you ain’t seen my culinary skills yet, mister. Mrs Howson said my swiss roll was café quality during our third-year domestic science exam. I’m thinking of applying for the Bake Off.’
‘Get away, you two.’ Kathleen bustled in, grabbing a bag of potatoes and a knife out of the knife block. ‘You mix men, knives and vegetables and there’ll be nothing left for our tea. I’ve seen it time and time again with Ray. He starts off with a bag of spuds and ends up with what looks like a muckheap.’
‘Sean’s brilliant with knives, aren’t you, Sean?’ said Josie. ‘You should see the picture of me he’s carved into the desk at the back of the chemistry lab. Do one on a potato to show everyone, Sean. Have you got your knife with you?’
‘Fuck off, I’m not doing a potato,’ Sean grunted.
‘Aw, go on, do it on a potato, Sean,’ pleaded Daz. ‘Or do me . . . go on, pleeease. I’ve always wanted to see my face on a potato.’ He sat down on the chair vacated by Rob to present his face to Sean.
‘Do our Ray, Sean,’ Kathleen shouted over her shoulder as she began to attack a potato. ‘I bet Ray’s face would come out right good on a potato.’
‘COUNTDOWN IS ABOUT TO START!’ yelled
Michelle at the top of her voice. Desperate for some headspace to sort out how she was going to deal with the unexpected evening ahead, she’d decided to deploy the TV option, which had always been useful when Josie was small and she’d wanted to ‘help’ in the kitchen.
